


New Year's wishes (and some kisses)

by nowhereminded



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Did I Mention Fluff, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, John Doesn't, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, Paul likes to plan, They fight a lot, They're just dorks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but only background fights, george is hungry all the time, nothing serious really, ringo is soft for him, ringo smiles a lot, ringo wants to take care of george
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhereminded/pseuds/nowhereminded
Summary: Paul wants the New Year's Eve pary to be perfect, John doesn't care but wants to argue with Paul, George is dumb and gets sick and Ringo takes care of him until he doesn't.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 28
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

_5 days, 6 hours and 41 minutes until New Year’s Eve_

“I can’t believe New Year’s Eve is around the corner and we still haven’t made any plans!”

“There’s still almost a week left, Paul, for God’s sake. Besides, we’ll end up going to the same club than last year, and the year before that, and the one before. We always go to the same bloody club, mate, what’s there to plan? Stop worrying.”

“Five days are _not_ enough time to think about a Plan B in case something goes wrong, John. We always end up going to the same club because at the last minute something _always_ goes wrong. Or have you forgotten about last year's original plan?”

“He’s got a point there, you know.”

“Shut up, Ringo, don’t encourage him. You are overreacting, Macca, as always. Your need to control everything will shave off half of your life, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, fuck off! If it weren't for me controlling everything we'd end up slothing around in front of the TV and getting to-go orders from the same burrito joint every single New fucking Year's Eve.”

“You keep saying that in an attempt to convince yourself that everyone needs and appreciates your control obsession when really, Paul— everyone hates it.”

“That's not true, you egg.”

“Yes it is. The truth hurts, Macca, but it will set you free. Stop lying to yourself.”

“I'm not lying to myself.”

“Yes you are!”

“No I'm not!”

“Yes you _are_!”

“No I'm _not_!”

And so, chaos spread in the Lennon-McCartney-Harrison-Starkey household. Ringo let out a sigh, used to hearing his best friends fight over the smallest things. He knew better than to get in between a Lennon-McCartney fight. He realized a long time ago that yelling at each other was the only way they knew to let go the feelings and words they kept locked in their chests, so he didn’t even bother trying to calm them down anymore. 

He turned off his laptop and moved it from his lap to the coffee table, biting back a sigh. He had hoped he could watch the last episode of the show he had been binge watching last week, but with his roommates arguing next to him in the sofa, he didn’t deem it possible.

He reached for the bowl of crisps and shoved a handful in his mouth while keeping his eyes locked on John and Paul as they got up and started pacing around the room. He knew in no time they would most likely be on the other side of the house. They did that quite a lot, he had noticed over the years, as if they could make stronger statements while waking. It wasn’t unusual for them to start an argument in the living room and finish in the bathroom upstairs. He didn’t even think it was weird anymore, really. At least they exercised that way.

Just when he was considering getting up and making some more tea, he heard the door from the entrance close and a pale looking George made his appearance into the living room.

“Hey.” he greeted along with a sigh while slumping in the sofa next to Ringo, close enough to lean on his shoulder.

“Hey. How was work?” he asked with a soft smile, surrounding George’s shoulders with his arm.

As a response, the younger one just let out a grunt followed by a whimper, and Ringo just had to laugh. “Sorry to hear that. Did you end up taking the double shift?” he questioned while patting his hair, to which George sighed and nodded.

“I need the money.” he mumbled against Ringo’s jumper.

“To buy more food?” he asked, still smiling, but there was no mockery in his tone, only warmth.

George lifted his head just enough to look at Ringo straight in the eye. “You know me too well, Richie. You know my soft spots.”

Ringo laughed at the gravity of his tone and nodded. “Of course I do.” he answered, and for a moment they just stared at each other before George hid his face again in Ringo’s jumper, eyes closed. “Want some tea? You look a bit pale, it might help you get warm.”

“Sure.” George said, but didn’t move. Neither did Ringo. “What are they fighting this time for?” he asked, vaguely gesturing towards the second floor, where John and Paul’s voices could be heard, if muffled.

“Uh… It started because of the New Year’s Eve party, but now… Well, you know them. They don’t need any big reasons to fight.” Ringo joked, and George flashed a tiny smile for a moment.

“Suppose they don’t.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, George drifting away into slumber and Ringo listening to his steady breathing. Suddenly, though, the moment was broken thanks to George coughing into his elbow, instantly sitting straight.

Ringo shot him a worried look and waited for him to breathe normally again before asking. “You alright?” he asked with a hand on his shoulder.

George nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I got a bit of a sore throat, but it’s fine. Must have been the cold wind, you know. I’ll take a scarf tomorrow.”

Ringo looked at him for a few seconds before standing. “Take mine, it’s warmer. Let’s get you some tea, yeah?” he said while offering George a hand to get up.

“The blue one?” he asked as he followed the older one to the kitchen, staring at his back and only his back, of course.

“Yeah, sure. I think it’s in the coat rack.” Ringo said while pouring some water into the kettle and waiting for the stove to make its wonders.

“Cool. Thank you.” George smiled while shoving a whole muffin (which he had hidden in one of the kitchen drawers in order to protect it from John, who loved to steal his snacks) in his mouth. He hadn’t even swallowed the whole thing before he was grabbing another one from the bag. He broke it in two and, after noticing Ringo was staring at him (much to Ringo’s dismay), smiled and offered him a half. “Want some? Blueberry.” he informed.

Ringo just couldn’t refuse the offer.


	2. Chapter 2

_4 days, 8 hours and 24 minutes until New Year’s Eve_

“Hey, Ringo, where’s Paul?”

Ringo turned his head to look at John from the chair behind his working desk, taking a couple of seconds to relocate himself in time and space after spending almost two full hours working. John had very nicely invaded his privacy and opened his bedroom door without knocking (ot that he was expecting him to do otherwise, anyway), and was now comfortably leaning against the doorframe with his eyes locked on Ringo.

He opened his mouth and stared at the ceiling for an instant, doing his best to remember what Paul had said before leaving the house. He had been so focused on his work he could barely recall his words, but after a moment he remembered him asking if he prefered the lavander air freshener or the lemon one. “Oh, yeah. He went to buy some groceries about twenty minutes ago. He must be about to get back.” Ringo victoriously answered. John hummed and Ringo smiled softly before turning back to the work sprawled all over his desk, deeming the conversation over.

After almost a minute, Ringo noticed John still was in the doorframe of his room, looking at him as if he were inspecting him. His intense gaze would have probably intimidated someone else, but Ringo knew that look. He wanted something. From him, specifically. ”Can I help you with something, Johnny?” he asked ever so gently, softly tapping the pen he was holding against his desk.

John seemed to snap out of it at that moment, looking surprised for half a second before quickly recovering. “Maybe.” he answered, dragging the vowels. He took a step toward Ringo, entering his room with both hands behind his back. Ringo didn't like it one bit. “Do you know where Geo keeps his snacks?” he asked with an innocent smile. Ah, there it was. Of course he wanted to resume his stupid little battle against George in which one of them bought food (read: George) and the other one tried to steal it (read: John). Up to that day George had managed to protect his snacks most times, with a couple of notable exceptions in which John succeeded only because he didn't play fair and was relentless. Once he set his eyes on the prize, he wouldn't stop pursuing it until he got what he wanted. Ringo knew better than to fall for his sweet smile.

“I have no idea whatsoever.” he answered in a flat tone, turning his body towards his papers again. He heard John get closer, his determination unaltered. Relentless.

“Liar. You know.” John acused, crossing his arms.

Ringo let out a sigh and turned on his chair to look at the younger lad. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. Those are _his_ snacks.” he pointed out.

John's brow furrowed and he extended his arms in a way that was supposed to convey offence, but that merely reminded Ringo of a toddler throwing a tantrum. “We are a community! A fellowship! We ought to share everything with each other, that’s the whole meaning of living together!”

“I thought it was to be able to afford this flat in the middle of London.” Ringo refuted, unbothered by his friend's whining.

“Nonsense! Just tell me where he’s hiding them, Ringo.” he tried again, pressing his palms against Ringo's desk and leaning in to look at him dead in the eye.

Ringo stared back for a few seconds, unimpressed, and rested his head against his hand. “Let it go, John.”

“Sharing is caring.” John used as a last resort, pouting. Paul would probably find it cute. Ringo was tired and still had work to do.

“Respecting your friends valuables is caring.”

John clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, stepping back and huffing. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out anyway…” he pursed his lips, thinking. “They can’t be behind the expensive plates because Paul told Geo he’d kill him if they fell and broke because of his snacks, and they can’t be in the oven like last time… Hmm… Under the sink? No, that would be too obvious. Geo's smarter than that...” he wouldn't tear his gaze away from Ringo, closely studying his facial expressions and looking for the tiniest giveaway. The twitch of an eyebrow or pressing his lips, anything that could indicate him he was getting any closer. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, deep in thought. “Maybe... in the tablecloth drawer?” he asked, looking attentively at Ringo’s face, and even though he tried to keep it straight something gave it away. He was reading him like an open book, and he must have done something terribly obvious to him, because next thing he knew John was cheerfully clapping his hands with a wide grin and running downstairs. He didn't play fair.

“John! No!” he yelled and started chasing him, trying to get to him before he got to George’s secret snack compartment. Damn it, why was he so easy to see through?

John laughed loudly while skipping the last three steps and landing with a loud _thump_ , then sprinting towards the kitchen. “Hell yeah! I’m a genius! I’m unsto— RINGO PUT ME DOWN!”

“No! Those are George’s snacks!” he yelled, arms firmly surrounding John’s waist to stop him from actually opening the drawer now that they were in the kitchen. John started to squirm right away, trying to put his feet back on the ground and free himself from the older one’s strong grip.

“I guessed where they are so I deserve to have them! Let me _go_!”

“No!”

“Ringo!”

“What are you doing?”

Both Ringo and John turned their heads to see a tired-looking, deadly serious Paul. He clearly wasn’t finding the whole situation any amusing at all. He had that look in his face, that “I’m _this_ close to hitting you with my guitar and I’m a pacifist so please stop before I let myself down” look that made John shudder and Ringo swallow.

“I was… We were…” Ringo started, trying to explain the scene unsuccessfully.

“Paul!” suddenly John reacted, stretching a hand to try to reach him. “Help me! Ringo won’t let me go!”

Paul stared at them for a few seconds before leaving the groceries bags in the counter as if nothing was happening. “Well, he must have a good reason for that.”

“I do!”  
  
“He doesn’t! C’mon Paulie, Macca, love, _Princess…_ ”

“Stop it.” Paul said dryly, putting the food away ever so calmly.

“Well then tell Ringo to put me down!” he insisted, still squirming. Paul sighed, looked at John, then at Ringo, and tilted his head.

“Ringo, c’mon. Whatever he was trying to do, I’ll keep him from doing it. Promise.” he assured, can of beans in his hands, Ringo considered his options for a few seconds, still wary of John's shenanigans and the threat that he posed to George's snacks. Eventually, though, he released him with a soft "fine".

John landed on the floor carefully and turned around to gaze at his former captor. “Oh you Ritchie, always so considerate.” John muttered, shooting the older lad a killing stare before walking towards Paul, snacks seemingly forgotten. “And you— I should be offended. How dare you ignore my pleads for help? Why won't you take me seriously? Am I nothing but a clown to you? Don't answer that.” he quickly added.

Paul's lips slightly twitched upwards, but he didn't spare a look towards John. “I guess I’m so used to hear you complain that it doesn’t have an effect on me anymore.” Paul retorted, giving him a bunch of carrots for him to put in the fridge.

“Outraging.” he said after going back to Paul’s side and leaning on the counter. Paul glanced at him through the corner of his eye, but didn’t answer. They settled in a comfortable silence and John kept observing him as he put away the contents of the last bag of food. “Is it cold outside? ” John asked, his eyes studying Paul's pink cheeks.

“Yeah, a bit. It’s winter, you know.” Paul answered absently, trying to make space for a box of biscuits in one of the cabinets.

John hummed and moved closer to him. “Are you cold?”

"A bit, but I'll get warm in a mom-- what— what are you doing?”

John has moved his hand and was now cradeling Paul’s cheek, caressing it softly with his thumb. “Just checking if you were cold.” he informed with a soft smile, his usual glint of playfulness replaced by a warm stare.

“I already told you I was.” Paul muttered, but he had his eyes locked with John’s. Neither of them moved away nor said anything else for the next couple of minutes, and Ringo —who was still in the kitchen and had been watching the whole thing evolve— pressed his lips together and looked at both sides as if waiting for them to notice him or aknowledge his pressence at the very least. Neither of them happened, and eventually he just left the kitchen as silently as he could while muttering under his breath half-hearted complaints and shaking his head. He sighed as he entered the living room.

“Jesus Christ, when are they going to kiss?” he mumbled to himself while collecting a couple of mugs from the coffee table. He couldn’t go to the kitchen to get them cleaned, though, because it was occupied by those two idiots, so he didn’t know what to do, really.

“Who’s going to kiss who?”

Ringo smiled before turning, recognising George's tired voice coming from the doorframe that connected the living room with the corridor that led to the door. “John and-- Jesus!"

"John and Jesus are going to kiss?" George asked, frowning as if he had seen something he'd rather forget.

"What? No! George, you look awful!” Ringo exclamed, leaving the mugs on the coffee table again and taking a step towards the younger boy.

“Well, thank you. I love you too, Richie.” George muttered before heading towards the stairs, looking like he could barely hold himself together much longer.

“Wait, come here.” Ringo said in a kind yet firm tone, and George obliged with a deep sigh. Ringo put a hand in his forehead and his eyes opened wide. “Bloody Hell, George, you have a fever! Come here, let me… Why aren’t you wearing your other coat? The thicker one I got you for your birthday last year?” he asked as he maneuvered George to sit on the couch.

“I didn’t think it’d be that cold when I left this morning.” George explained, letting himself get taken care of without any complain. He actually looked like he was enjoying the attention, letting Ringo look after him as much as he wanted.

Ringo shook his head and huffed as he covered George in blankets once he was sitting in the couch. “I bought it precisely to prevent this.” he lamented, but there was no scolding in his voice, mostly worry. He stood and went to the kitchen after making sure George was safely wrapped up and comfortable with the promise of coming back with some tea.

Once he got there he saw Paul had started to make some dinner with John by his side, both smiling softly at something John had just whispered in Paul’s ear. He didn’t want to interrupt the sweet moment, but he had a bigger issue in his hands (one that was now a human-sized burrito in the couch).

“George’s sick.” he informed while grabbing a mug. Paul looked at him as if he had just said the house was on flames, the moment between he and John broken in a second.

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah, he’s got a fever. He was coughing yesterday but I didn’t think it would be anything serious.” he put some water in the stove and went to the first aid kit they kept in the bathroom. He grabbed a pill for the fever and went back to the kitchen, where there was only Paul now.

“John went to check on him. You think it’s serious? As in the _I can’t leave bed for a week_ kind of serious?” Paul asked as he poured the boiling water into a mug and added the tea.

Ringo sighed and stood next to him. “I don’t know. George doesn’t usually get sick, you know. I’ll give him this and hopefully his fever will go down. Maybe it’s early enough.” he said in a hopeful tone before carefully grabbing the cup of tea.

When he went to the living room he found John kneeling next to George, who had abandoned his sitting position and was now laying on the couch. “Hey.” he mumbled with a soft smile while offering George the mug and pill. “Take this, you’ll feel better.”

John helped George incorporate. “Seriously, guys, you’re overreacting. I’m fi—” he couldn’t continue talking. He started to cough and sneeze one after the other, barely having time to breathe at all. Ringo quickly covered him with the blankets that had fallen from his shoulders when he had incorporated and both anxiously waited for him to calm down and be able to breathe normally again.

John shot him a worried look and passed him the mug along with the pill. This time George didn’t say anything, just swallowed the medication and took a sip of the tea. He let go a sigh and slumped on the couch as if that had been the most exhausting effort he had done in a while.

“I’ll call in sick for you tomorrow.” John said to which Ringo nodded and George frowned.

“I’m not sick.” George mumbled from under the blankets, which he had pushed up to his face.

“I can take care of him for a few days until he feels better.” Ringo continued, ignoring the younger lad.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Let’s just hope he’s feeling alright for New Year’s Eve or Paul will lose his mind.”

Ringo nodded, but a voice in his head told him that wouldn’t happen.


	3. Chapter 3

_3 days, 16 hours and 16 minutes until New Year’s Eve_

“Jesus, George, why do you have to make things so difficult?”

“I’m not making shit difficult. You’re the one who’s trying to feed me drugs.”

“It’s medicine, it will help you with your—”

“I’m not sick! I feel fine!”  
  
“Like hell you do! You're like a living corpse. Just take the damn thing, mate. It's good for you.”

“I'm sure it would be _if I were_ sick, but since _I'm not_ —”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Alright, don’t take it! I’m off to work.” John stood up from the sofa and left the medicine and the glass of water he had been offering George on the coffee table. “Ringo, he’s all yours!” he shouted before grabbing his coat and leaving the house, closing the door a little too hard.

George sniffled, observing the door for a few seconds, and went to the kitchen. Not a minute had passed before Ringo appeared. “What are you doing? You should be in bed.” he scolded with a frown, despite already knowing the answer.

“For the last time, I’m not sick. My nose is runny and my throat hurts, but that’s because of the cold wind. I’m _not_ sick. I don’t get sick.” George insisted.

Really, Ringo didn’t get why he didn’t want to accept he was, indeed, sick. He guessed it had something to do with his constant need to prove himself to the others, a topic George and him had discussed several times when none of them could sleep. No matter what he told him, the younger lad seemed to be convinced that if he didn’t prove to himself and his friends that he was a full grown-up, they’d see him as a child.

“Alright.” he agreed. Ringo knew best than trying to convince George to do something by force. There were other ways, softer ways, Ringo-like ways. “Even if you are not sick you _are_ staying home today— I mean, John already called in sick for you. Maybe you just need to rest a little bit, maybe that’s it. We can spend the day in front of the TV, watching movies and eating, yeah?” he stared at George’s face, looking for a reaction, and he knew the lad enough to know he was having trouble stopping a smile from spreading in his face. Probably the prospect of spending the day eating and resting had convinced him. “But first let’s take care of that runny nose and sore throat, alright?”

George looked at him suspiciously for a moment, but eventually nodded. “Alright. Gimme the stupid pill.” he sighed, reaching out to take it.

Yeah, Ringo had his ways.

An hour later, as promised, they were spread on the couch while watching _Law & Order: SVU _. Ringo had stopped paying attention a while ago, focusing on George’s breathing to check if it got heavier or if he started to sweat. Apart from the sporadic cough, he seemed to be doing fine.

“I’m hungry.” George muttered after the two detectives on the screen had locked the suspect on the interrogation room. He barely heard him, his voice suddenly rough and weak. He looked at Ringo and, really, if he had asked him to throw himself out the window he would’ve done it. It’s just _— that look._ “Can you make something? Like… soup, or something like that. Something quick.” he added, as if he wanted Ringo to know he didn’t want him to be gone for long.

The oldest smiled and ran a hand through George’s hair, pushing it backwards. He felt a slim layer of sweat in his forehead. “‘Course. Some chicken soup sounds good?”

After getting George’s approval, he got up and went to the kitchen. He didn’t take long, but when he came back with a tray in his hands with two bowls of soup and two cups of tea on it, he noticed George was no longer sitting. He found him all curled up, hugging his own legs with his eyes shut.

Ringo let the tray on the coffee table and kneeled in front of him, pressing a hand against his forehead. Hot again, hotter than the day before, and definitely sweatier. At the contact, George opened his eyes and smiled faintly. “Hey, Richie— I think I am sick.” he mumbled.

Ringo sighed and caressed his head softly. “Yeah, love. I think so too.”

“Should I take more medicine?” asked George after coughing for ten long seconds, finally able to breathe normally.

Ringo shook his head. “No, we have to wait a little bit more before you can take more. We don’t want you to overdose on ibuprofen, do we?” he joked without ceasing his pampering.

George snorted, which caused him to pull a face— probably he had hurt his throat by doing so. “No, that’d be an awfully ridiculous way to die. Can you imagine it? I can already see the news covering my death. _George Harrison, a respected member of our society, found dead in his couch for overdosing on ibuprofen! He had a bright future ahead, such a handsome lad as well, but he didn’t survive a little cold. He will be fondly remembered by about seventy six percent of those who knew him—_ ”

George had to stop, because he couldn’t even hear himself over Ringo’s laughter. He soon joined him, even if with less enthusiasm in order not to choke again between coughs.

After a few moments, and after calming down, Ringo helped George sit straight and handed him his bowl of soup. Slowly but steadily, George ate all of it. “Well, I’m happy to see neither your sense of humor nor your appetite have decreased.” he commented with a warm smile while watching the younger one eat. George just shrugged and, after licking his lips (a gesture in which Ringo’s eyes didn’t linger at all, of course), asked for some more soup. Ringo obliged.

A few hours later, George was buried under three blankets, laying on the sofa, and Ringo was sitting in the armchair next to him. He still had some work to do, so he was furiously typing in order to get it done and turn his attention towards George once again— who had kindly muted the movie he was watching and added subtitles so that Ringo could concentrate.

It was futile, anyway, because Ringo found himself staring to George every so often, his eyes staring at his sleepy, cute face and the way his eyes were half closed, and his pouty lips, and…

_JesusMaryandJoseph Richard **stop**. _

He let out a sigh and, after taking a good look at the work he had done, he decided to call it a day. He closed his laptop and moved it to the coffee table, after which he melted in the armchair.

George shot him an amused look and slowly incorporated. “How you doin’?” he asked, his voice rough.

Ringo raised an eyebrow and threw a cushion at him very softly with a smile, knowing well he only meant to tease. “I should be asking that. How are you feeling?”

George shrugged and took a look at the space next to him. No words were needed, since Ringo was already moving from his seat in the armchair to the couch, next to George. He made himself comfortable before lifting an arm, inviting George to complete the empty gap. He looked like he was about to do it, already pushing himself towards Ringo, but suddenly stopped and looked at him with his eyes wide open.

“I don’t want you to get sick because of me, though. Maybe you should stay a bit away?” he suddenly reflected, frowning a little at the possibility.

Ringo didn’t even bat an eye before answering. “I’m not gonna get sick for cuddling with you. C’mon, come here.” he insisted, arms open. George thought about it for a minute before finally climbing on top of him, forcing a sigh out of Ringo. “Ouch— yeah, those are my ribs.” he laughed before wrapping George with his arms, who was now smiling.

Hours later, when George was long gone in his bed (completly K.O. thanks to the medication) and Ringo was alone cleaning the coffee table and tidying up the couch a little bit, he sneezed.


	4. Chapter 4

_ 2 days, 14 hours and 26 minutes until New Year’s Eve _

“I should’ve seen this coming, really.”

Ringo slowly looked up from his cup of tea for the first time in a while. He had dazed off about twenty minutes ago, his jammed brain being able to process only so much, and ended up focusing in the reflection of the kitchen light on the tea. He looked at Paul, who was making a quick breakfast for George and Ringo. He and John barely had half an hour before they would have to leave for work, but seeing how Ringo was barely able to walk upstairs without going out of breath, he had offered to make some breakfast.

“What was I thinking? We all know how cuddly they get when they’re alone, I knew and I still let them do it, where was my common sense?” Paul kept murmuring to himself while stirring the scrambled eggs a bit too enthusiastically.

“Easy there, Macca.” John intervened, already knowing how much momentum his friend could take if no one stopped him in time. He walked up to him and put a soothing hand in his shoulder, massaging the tense muscle with care. “No one forced George to cuddle with Ringo while being sick,  _ and vice versa _ .” he added, glancing at Ringo before turning his attention to Paul. “They’re adults, yeah? They had unprotected sex and now all these germs are their babies. They gotta take full responsibility and live with it.” he joked with a shrug, face perfectly still, and even though both Ringo and Paul made a face, the latter ended up chuckling.

“Gross.” was all he said before serving the breakfast in two plates. “‘Aight, this is ready. John love, make George come down before it gets cold.”

John obliged without emitting a sound, and Ringo was grateful they had stopped talking about him as if he wasn’t in the kitchen with them. Paul left the kitchen too, probably to make sure he had everything ready for work.

A few minutes later, John and George entered the kitchen. The younger lad was wrapped in a thick blanket and had a red nose and glassy look, taking slow and short steps. He was completely disheveled as well, eyes puffy from having just woken up, and Ringo couldn’t stop himself from thinking he looked absolutely  _ adorable _ .

“‘Morning.” he murmured while sitting on the table. He looked exhausted, and for a moment Ringo forgot his own body discomfort and general pain and put a hand on his forehead. His own temperature wasn’t reliable, though, so he didn’t try to guess if he had a fever or not.

“How are you feeling?” he asked instead, taking one of the plates and cups of tea and placing them in front of George in the table.

“Worse than yesterday.” he mumbled before grabbing the fork (quite weakly and with some trouble, because he didn’t want to drop his grip on the blanket but he wanted to grab the goddamn fork). After the first bite, he sniffled and looked at Ringo with nothing but complete and utter sadness and desperation in his eyes. “I can’t taste anything.” he cried.

Beside him, John snorted while finishing his coffee. “Priorities.” he said to no one in particular before calling for Paul quite loudly, making both Ringo and George wince. “We gotta leave. Try not to murder each other with more germ exchange now that you’re both already fucked up. Cheers!” he waved before disappearing. A couple of seconds later, though, his head reappeared in the kitchen’s doorframe. “Seriously, though— don’t make anything stupid. You know Paul worries a lot.” he said in a stern tone before leaving once and for all. They heard Paul’s voice one more time saying goodbye before the door shut close and then the whole house seemed to calm down.

Ringo and George ate in silence, both having trouble breathing and swallowing and basically doing anything that involved a perfectly functional, non-sore throat. Almost an hour later they had satisfied their bellies and were resting on the couch.

“I’m sorry I got you sick.” George suddenly said, averting Ringo’s eyes while fiddling with one of the ends of the blanket around his shoulders.

Ringo stared at him, opened his mouth to answer, sneezed, blew his nose, complained and sighed. “It’s not your fault. You did say maybe it wasn’t a great idea to cuddle… It was me who insisted. These germs are my babies and I take full responsibility for them.” he said in a solemn tone, retaking John’s earlier joke.

“You— bab— what?”

Oh, right. George wasn’t in the kitchen yet when John had made the joke. Hm. He cleared his throat and proceeded to explain the jest. When he was done, George was looking at him with the same disgusted face Ringo and Paul had pulled to John. He laughed, and it hurt in his chest when he breathed in, but he couldn’t stop himself. Eventually George joined him.

The clock on Ringo’s bedside table read six thirty five when his very owner was abruptly awoken by a buzzing sound. He opened his eyes lazily, feeling his whole body incredibly heavy— but not because he was sick, but because a very asleep George Harrison was on top of him, snoring softly. They were wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and Ringo would have found the lack of mobility, the slight sweat coat that he was starting to feel everywhere, George’s chin pressed against his sternum and a few other things  _ really  _ uncomfortable if he hadn’t been in George’s bed with George sleeping peacefully on top of him and, overall, George.

It was a lovely sight.

He freed his arm from under the three layers of covers and grabbed his phone from the bedside table, where it was still buzzing. He checked the name in the screen before taking the call.

“Yeah?” he answered, his free hand absently intertwining in George’s hair, his fingers fumbling with his strands.

“Hey, just calling to check in. Everything alright?” Paul asked. All he got in response from Ringo was a weak “Mhmm…” and a yawn. “Were you asleep?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, mate. You haven’t been answering the texts John and I have been sending in the group chat and I… well, you know me. I worry too much.” he laughed, but Ringo could sense it wasn’t entirely honest. There was something bugging his friend, he knew.

“I think you worry just enough. We’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you.” he said, and he meant it.

Paul let out a sigh. “Yeah, well, John doesn’t seem to agree. He’s always saying I overreact and that I worry too much for every little thing— and you know I know he doesn’t mean the things he says when we banter, or argue, or whatever. Most of them, at least. And it's not like I take to heart every single thing he says, you know? I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me, but—”

“He’s just doing it to get your attention.” Ringo interrupted him, despite knowing how much Paul hated it when people did that.

There was a silence. Ringo sniffled and waited, caressing George’s forehead with his thumb meanwhile.

“What do you mean?”

_ Oh, finally. _ “Haven’t you realized that whenever he says those things to you you’re talking to someone else, or about someone else, or just not focusing on him? It’s just his way to make you look at him.”

“B-but… But I look at him…” Paul mumbled, and he sounded quite bewildered.

“Yeah, but not enough. Or maybe not the way he wants you to. I don’t know, John’s head is not a place I fancy going. Anyway, you know he loves to have your attention, right? And every time he calls you that you start to fight, because he knows it bothers you. And that’s what he wants, really, because when you two start yelling at each other… There is just no way to get you back to Earth until you’re finished.” Ringo sighed.

There was another silence, and Ringo resumed his caresses, this time going all the way down to the tip of George’s nose.

“And…” Paul swallowed. “And why do you think he does that?”

Ringo smiled a little bit and rolled his eyes, which he regretted the second after because his eyes hurt whenever he moved them too much. “I’m not gonna do all the homework, Paul. That’s your job to finish.”

“But—”

“Good luck!” he said before hanging up. He let go a deep sigh and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds until a faint, sleepy but smiling voice broke the silence.

“Richard the love counselor.” George mumbled, his eyes barely open while staring at Ringo. He laughed a little and pulled his hair backwards.

“Sleep good?”

“Mmmyeah, I got myself a good pillow.”

Ringo smirked and caressed the younger’s nape. “Bet you did.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, enjoying each other’s presence in silence. Ringo had even closed his eyes again, considering going back to sleep, when George spoke.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to hurry them, that they should take their relationship at their own pace.”

“Well— yeah, but—” Ringo started, startled by George’s sudden inquiring. “Well, Paul was asking me… I mean, he was looking for advice. I couldn’t leave him in the dark, could I?”

“I heard the whole thing, he didn’t ask. You just want to see them together at last.” George retorted with a grin.

“I—” he considered defending himself, but really, he was in a blanket burrito with the same man that was attacking him. There was no point in resisting, so he sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I want them to be happy— together. I know they’re good for each other. They just need a little push… They are meant to be, you know—”

“Mhm.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t give your pillow that look!”

George laughed and stretched his arms as much as the burrito allowed him to. Suddenly, his smile faded away slowly and he stared at Ringo with a serious expression in his face.

“What?” the older asked, surprised for the change in his mood.

George took a few seconds to ask, as if weighting the words in his mouth before letting them out. “Do you ever think about, uhm… Do you think we, uh, are like them? You know… Paul and John.”

Ringo raised an eyebrow and, after thinking for a few seconds, shrugged. “I don’t think so. We are quite different, you know— that’s why we work together as a group. Opposite personalities and all that. Why?" he asked, frowning slightly.

George stared at him and opened his mouth, but shut it closed immediately after. Finally, he shook his head and pushed himself off of Ringo with his hands. “Nothing. My head feels funny, must be all the meds and sleep. Wanna make some tea?”

George didn’t wait for Ringo’s answer. He untangled and freed himself from Ringo’s limbs and the cocoon, challenge after challenge, and after making sure to wrap a blanket tightly around his body, left the room.

Maybe it was because of the sudden loose of a warm body on top of him, but suddenly Ringo felt very cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!!!!! i don't know why it took me so long to update, but here we are. i guess my muse just went on a vacation to the bahamas or smth  
> i feel like my characterization is a bit off in this chapter? idk, gay stuff.

_ 1 day, 22 hours and 46 minutes until New Year’s Eve _

Ringo couldn't sleep.

He could hear George’s muffled coughs and grunts from his room. He had been hearing them ever since they had gone to bed two hours ago, and the image of a weak, sweaty and pained george just wouldn't let him sleep. It was the only thing he could focus on, no matter how hard he tried to divert his thoughts. He had a lot to think, actually, so one would think it wouldn’t be  _ that  _ difficult to just concentrate on something else, but in the end his mind would always take him back to him, to George. Whether it was because he was directly related to it or just because his brain was a bitch like that, he’d find himself thinking about his puffy eyes and red nose and tempting lips… and how distant he had been in the last hours they had spent together before parting ways to their respective bedrooms.

He wasn’t imagining it, was he? He had been… aloof. He’d blame it on the cold if he hadn’t been perfectly friendly and warm just that same morning, all smiles and jokes in between sneezes. Maybe he had said something? He wasn’t stupid, he knew the change in his attitude had starter right after his phone call with Paul. Maybe it was because of something he had said then? It killed him not to know for sure.

Ringo sighed and ran a hand across his face, grunting softly. George was coughing like crazy again, and his limbs itched with the need of getting out of bed. He had resisted the temptation of getting up to check up on him up until that moment, but if he heard him cough just one more time… He’d lose his mind.

George didn’t cough for a minute. Ringo relaxed a little bit. Then George sneezed.

He just had to do something. So he did.

He got out of bed and secured his robe around his waist before heading to George’s bedroom, which was located right in front of his. He knocked on the door softly so as not to scare him, and waited for a response.

A couple of seconds went by, and then he heard the younger’s rough, tired voice. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Georgie, uhm... You alright?" there was a pause; no answer. "I can get you a glass of water if you want" he asked more than offered, hand lingering in the door knob.

"I'm alright, Ringo. Thank you."

The use of the nickname felt like an arrow had pierced Ringo’s heart. George always called him Richie. How badly had he fucked up?

He swallowed and stared at the door knob.

"Can I come in?" he asked before biting his lower lip, fearing George’s answer.

"Why?"

"I just…” he doubted. Why, exactly, did he want to get into George’s room? That was a very good question. If only he had the answer. “I don't want to wake the boys up." he finally managed to say, having struggled to find an excuse.

"You can go back to sleep, that'll work" was immediate Georges response, a sourness in his voice that wasn't there before.

Ringo pressed his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. "I wish I could, Georgie, I really do. But I can't knowing that you're not alright." he mumbled, and he wasn’t entirely talking about the cold. He wasn't sure if George had heard him, because it had been almost a minute and he still hadn't received an answer. Should he leave? Knock again? Maybe George had fallen asleep, what if he woke him up? But what if not answering was his way of saying “go fuck yourself I don’t want to see your stupid face”? Oh, fuck, did George hate him so much as to not want to let him in?

"Come on in."

_ Oh, thank fucking God. _

Ringo took a deep breath and opened the door slowly. He took a step in and scanned the room (it was still just as messy as it was when George wasn’t sick) before placing his eyes in George’s figure. He was sitting in the bed, back against the headboard and hands resting on his lap. He looked tense, shoulders stiff and fingers tightly intertwined in a way that looked almost painful. It hurt Ringo to realize it was because of him.

"Hey..." he whispered, slowly making his way through George’s mess towards the bed.

"Hey." George didn't look at him, focusing in a wrinkle in the blanket instead. He flattened it with his hand and then started to twist and tear one of the multiples tissues that surrounded him.

“Can I…” Ringo asked, gesturing towards the bed. George nodded and he sat next to him, careful not to sit on any of the tissues. He swallowed, suddenly finding himself at a loss of words.

“So? What is it?”

Ringo looked up and stared at George for a couple of seconds before sighing. “I should be the one asking that. What is it? What did I do?” he asked, turning his body completely towards George until one of his feet left the ground and was left hanging off the edge of the bed.

George fidgeted a little and focused on the tissue he was still holding, his gaze evading Ringo’s . “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he started, trying not to be too harsh even if he was tired, and sick, and worried, and frustrated, and a little bit hungry. “You’ve been a bit, uhm,  _ off  _ for the majority of the evening.” George raised an eyebrow, and Ringo swallowed before his inquisitive, unforgiving gaze. He should explain himself, yeah. “You know, uh, you’ve been quiet, and sort of cold towards me… Listen, I just-- I just want to know what I’ve done wrong,  _ because I’ve obviously done something wrong _ , and I want to fix it if you let me because I hate to see you avoid me even when we’re in the  _ same room _ and I want to take care of you and I can’t do that if there’s a whole room between us,  _ can I _ ?”

Well, hm. That didn’t go as planned.

George was staring at him, a mixture of confusion, surprise and  _ what the fuck _ in his eyes. Slowly, he opened his mouth. But then closed it again. And opened it, and closed it, and finally settled.

Ringo sighed and moved a little closer to George. “Will you please tell me what I’ve done wrong?” he pleaded, taking one of the younger’s hands in his. “I… whatever it is, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

George’s gaze moved from their intertwined hands to Ringo’s eyes and, after a few seconds, closed his eyes and rested his head against the headboard. “You didn’t to anything wrong, Rings.”

Ringo clutched his hand tightly. “Then why don’t you call me Richie?”

George opened his eyes and looked at him with a small frown. “Eh?”

“You always call me Richie. If nothing’s wrong, then why aren’t you calling me Richie?” he pressed, lifting his other hand to George’s arm.

“I-- do you want me to call you Richie? Is that it?”

“No, of course that’s not it!” he raised his voice without noticing, and George had to cover his mouth with his free hand to stop him from continuing.

“Shhh! Do you want Paul to kick our asses for waking him up at two in the morning?”

Ringo mumbled a response, but was muffled by the younger’s hand. He looked very serious even when he couldn’t understand what the hell he was saying. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds before George snorted, and then it was Ringo who had to cover his mouth to stop him from laughing out loud. It was all just  _ so ridiculous _ .

It took them about five whole minutes to calm down and stop giggling like little boys every time they crossed glances. Finally, George sighed and shook his head.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Richie, for real. I just… I think too much sometimes, that’s all.” he said with a reassuring look, smiling a little bit. But still, Ringo wasn’t convinced.

“You mean it has nothing to do with Paul’s phone call?”

George blinked. “Paul’s phone call? Why?”

“You’ve been weird ever since then.”

“Oh.” George looked surprised Ringo had noticed the moment his attitude had changed at all, both eyebrows raised. “No, it’s… More because of…” he sighed, as if forcing himself to spit it out. “Because of what you said after that. You know, when I asked you if you think we’re like John and Paul, and you said that we’re not, like,  _ not at all _ .”

Ringo frowned. “Is… that’s the reason? I don’t understand, do you  _ want  _ us to be like them? I mean, you know I love them to death, but who knows what happens to the mind if you start to think like John or…”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” George interrupted in a slightly higher tone before biting his lip and lowering his head. “That’s not what I mean.” he repeated in a whisper.

Ringo stared at him for what felt like hours, waiting for him to continue. “Then what is it?” he asked when the younger stayed quiet. “Geo, baby, talk to me.” he pleaded in a whisper, bringing a hand to George’s cheek and caressing it with his thumb, forcing him to lift his head.

“I just... “ he started with closed eyes, leaning lightly towards Ringo’s hand. He sighed and stared at the older man through his eyelashes. “I want us to be Ringo and George the way they are John and Paul.”

A second went by, Ringo’s brain processing the information. Oh. So he had felt like they weren't as close as John and Paul... was that it? There was a little voice in his head telling him that there was _more_ , that George meant something _else_ by that. Did he? And on a second thought, was he okay with that possibility?

_Yes, yes you are_ , that same voice whispered. But he didn't want to rush things, or to jump to conclusions, or to misread George's words.

So he did the only thing he could think of in that moment: he moved a little bit closer to George and spoke with his heart in his hand.

"You are a dummy, did you know that?" he asked in a soft tone, accompanied by an even softer smile. "I know we might not be two crazy geniuses who compliment each other in every single thing they do and who seem to share a single brain cell, but we're still... It's still the two of us. It's you and me, and then there's the rest. No matter what, George, you’ll always come first."

The look George gave him was worth all the hours he had spent rolling in his bed, unable to sleep. The smile that appeared on his gorgeous face was worth all the minutes he had spent trying to figure out what was wrong. The little nod he made before moving to a side of the bed and making place for Ringo was worth the uncomfortably warm feeling that had settled in his chest. Overall, George was always worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case someone's a bit confused with the whole count down thing (like i fucking was while writing this, i have witnesses (sorta)), just picture: if new year's eve is in sunday, this chapter takes place in friday night.
> 
> maybe no one needed that, maybe someone did, maybe i'm just stupid and had to stare at my calendar for two solid minutes while whispering "what the fuck" before connecting the dots.
> 
> hope you liked it!!!


End file.
